The ground trembled before the first shot was fired.
Isabella felt it through the soles of her boots a low, rolling vibration that had nothing to do with artillery and everything to do with numbers. Too many footsteps. Too synchronized. Too deliberate.
"They're not charging," Luca said beside her, eyes narrowed as he studied the horizon through binoculars. "They're… advancing."
Damian stood a few steps ahead, blood still staining the sleeve of his jacket from the last battle, his posture rigid with something close to dread. He lowered his scope slowly.
"No," he said. "They're unveiling."
Fog peeled back like a curtain being drawn by unseen hands.
And then Isabella saw them.
Rows upon rows of soldiers emerged from the mist not ragged mercenaries, not conscripts hungry for pay, but something far worse. They moved in perfect unison, armor dark and unmarked, faces blank, eyes forward. No insignias. No flags.
No fear.
Sophia swallowed hard. "How many?"
